Saturday, July 26, 2014

DNA-Out of Print Short Fiction: MONIKA PANT

Birdwatcher

Monika Pant

Siddharth stepped back after an hour at the
telescope. The pale cream wall with the framed photographs was unchanged. So
was the streak of dampness that ran from the ceiling in the far corner. The indoor
world was the same as always.

He packed away his instruments, his camera,
his sketches and closed the window. His rucksack lay at the side of his bed.
With a sigh he picked it up and left the house to answer his father’s summons. A
few hours later, he was in the city, speeding through in a black and yellow
taxi. But when the streets narrowed down, they began to move more and more
slowly. He could see the sweet shops, the cups of tea held by people and the
pushing, elbowing men and women who always seemed to want to go somewhere. There
were loosely strung groups of boys standing with hands on their hips or around
the shoulders of others, their faces a blur, their eyes unfocused, their teeth
bared in raucous laughter. He stared at them and at the buildings with
blackened sides that had been whitewashed over and over again, and at the new
ones, all glass and chrome, their tops chopped off by the frame of his taxi
window.

His ears felt rather than heard the mangled
mix of screeching tyres, rattling buses, purring cars, the incessant talking,
the shouts, and the horns, the merciless horns laying claim to the atmosphere
as though it belonged to them. A patriotic song from a teashop mixed inharmoniously
with a cell phone singing ‘You’re my Hunny-Bunny’ and the ‘Chikni Chameli’ from
somewhere juxtaposed with the blaring-out of the latest manifesto from a
politico who was standing for the municipality elections next week. Already he
was longing to go back.

The familiar turn in the road with the red
letterbox, the peeling plaster of the shop selling kites, a relic from his
childhood, and he was almost back in the by lanes where he had grown up. He
closed his eyes, savouring the blackness, knowing it would be elusive once he
reached. A few more minutes, and he could feel the ambience seeping into every
pore of his body – the lined Ashok trees, the broken step, the rusty opening in
the gate of the park opposite – and here, almost brushing against those
forgotten years, the taxi stopped and he opened his eyes reluctantly.

‘Cannot go further, too narrow, how will I
back my vehicle?’ the driver said.

He got out wordlessly and gave him a hundred-rupee
note, waving away the change. He watched the taxi reversing and driving off,
fighting an urge to call it back and climb in.

The mossy corner of the outer courtyard with
the dripping tap made him stoop and cup his hands beneath it and watch it
filling. He lifted up his hands and sipped the cool water of his childhood. A
plethora of images flashed into his mind, one chasing the other until his mother’s
voice interrupted them. ‘Come back, you devil, wait till I catch you.’ Yes, she
had always caught him when he had run away after a prank; and there had been
many. Instinctively, he brought up his head with a jerk, then recalled why he
was there.

The bell rang with the old, familiar tone; do
things never change? Or wear out? But, he knew the answer. This was a place
where old and worn out things were repaired over and over again. Only one thing
had worn out before its time that no amount of repairing could heal. He
remembered the patience with which he used to explain his views and the
blankness that met him. They had never understood.

‘This is your ancestral home.’

‘We live in a society, not on an island where
you can do what you want.’

‘As long as you are here you will have to go
to these social gatherings.’

And so, he had left. His father had been not
only the head of the family, but the head of the Bengali community that lived
in the neighbourhood, the head of the entire clan. Everyone came to him for
advice – regarding their sons and daughters, their careers, marriage, everything.
Peeping from behind the curtains when he was told to go out and play as adults
were discussing adult matters, he had seen his father resolve issues with an
iron hand, seemingly a god to them. How could people discuss intimate matters
with another? And why should the other offer solutions as though he were
dispensing justice? Weddings arranged under the auspices of his father
crumbled; he arranged divorces. People died; he gave them money for the last
rites. Children were born; he blessed them and got their horoscopes cast.

A claustrophobic feeling that he remembered
from his boyhood days overcame him. He rang the bell again, and getting no
answer, pushed the door open. The smell of incense hit him and he took off his
sandals out of habit. In the small worship room where an array of silver idols
stood musing about the fate of men, he found his father. Sitting cross-legged
as he remembered it, his back ramrod straight, white-haired and swarthy
skinned, his father remained as still as the statues.

Siddharth waited, leaning against the wall and
looked around. The silence bounced back from odd angles of the house: the tulsi
plant which he had always associated with his mother’s chants, the sunmica
topped dining table, the washing machine which looked incongruous among the
antiquated objects. The washing machine that his mother had received from him
with wide-eyed wonder stood in the corner, lovingly wiped clean, perhaps one of
the last tasks she had performed before she had died. No one used it now, he
was sure, it had become a relic just like all the other the pieces that were
displayed.

What could it be that his father wanted to say
to him? He would have to wait.

‘Sit, do you want a cup of tea? Or something
to eat?’

‘Nothing.’

His father felt more uncomfortable than he
did, he realised. The old man took his time and prepared a cup of tea and sat
before him at the table. He toyed with his cup, and then, characteristically, without
preamble, went to the point. ‘Your mother had been worried about you.’

Images of shy brides, faces painted, all dolled up in silk and jewels repulsed
him. What should he say? ‘I am not getting married.’

‘Why?’

‘I am not interested in marriage.’

‘That’s no answer.’

‘Baba, is that why you called me here?’

‘Yes, what’s wrong with that?’

‘You know I’m busy. I thought … by the tone of
your voice, that there was an emergency.’

‘Well, it is an emergency.’

‘Huh?’

‘I am going to the ashram.’

‘Oh! Then go.’

‘Well, I can’t, until you get married.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Because, well, you don’t understand, I’m
going for good.’ Siddharth stared at his father. ‘There’s nothing for me here.
You’ll have to stay here. Or sell all this.’

He looked around. His childhood memories lay
scattered around. Tears and laughter. His mother’s sobs and his father’s
taunts. He got up.

‘I have to go, Baba. You do what you want with
this. I don’t want anything. And, don’t go on about marriage. I will never
marry.’

‘Listen, but tell me why. You will need
someone when you grow older. Someone to share with.’

Was there a catch in his father’s voice? He
could not be sure.

‘No, Baba,’ he went on, in a softer tone. ‘I’m
too used to being myself. Besides, I can’t share everything in
my life with anyone. There are places in which I will never let in anyone.’

‘But, son, you will need a woman.’

Siddharth was surprised. His father had aged.
That was the closest he had come to talking with him, man to man.

‘But that’s no problem. I can have a
relationship with any woman I like. If she also likes me, that is.’

He realised his father did not understand. He
stopped and gave him a smile, perhaps for the first time in years. Perhaps,
they belonged to different strains. Like bacteria, he thought. They could never
really understand each other. Did bacteria understand each other? Perhaps it was
only humans who felt this desperate need to understand each other.

‘But…’

‘But, what Baba? This is not your day and age.
You’ve got to understand, you’ve got to move with the times.’

His father shook his head. ‘I can’t. I’m too
old. You do what you like. I can’t come to meet you then. Ever.’

Siddharth bent down and touched his father’s
feet. That was the most he could do for the traditions his father stood for.
His father was not even interested in trying to understand him and his beliefs.
It had always been about roles as a father, a son, a husband. No, all the
people that were advised and helped were not individuals; they were just faces.

He turned and walked back into the street,
squinting at the bright sunlight. He would have to walk to the main road before
he got a taxi to take him to the station. Afternoon shadows cast their darkness
on the row of old-style bungalows and their shaded interiors. He wondered if
there were people from his childhood still living in them. Uncles and aunts, as
he was told to consider them, despite not being related by blood. It was as if
they were watching him, brows furrowed, disdain written on their faces. He
kicked at a pebble and watched it roll desolately towards the gutter. Nothing
stirred. He hailed a passing cab.

Later, as he watched the birds through his
telescope and made notes on his laptop about their nesting habits, he wondered
why people could not be more like them. He wondered why it was expected of him
to put someone before himself and live. He watched a fledgling, with hardly any
feathers yet, being pushed by its parent out of a large nest. Again and again,
it fluttered its wings and fell to the soft sand below. Today’s lesson was
over, he thought, as he saw the parent look at its baby struggling to stand on
its feet. Tomorrow, it would fly. On its own.

The sea waves hit the rocks and a fine spray
filled the air. A pair of gulls swooped down and looked for crumbs left by
picnicking humans. Their raucous cries filled the air. He felt a thrill go
through his body as he settled down to watch them.

Monika Pant, from
India, has had her stories and poems published in several anthologies around
the world. An English
teacher for over fifteen years, she also writes course books in English Grammar
and literature. Her real life snippets are published in the Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series
and a short story written by her was long listed for the 2013 Commonwealth
Short Story Prize. Her debut novel Caught
in Two Winds was published by Lifi
Publications and she has written a
memoir, EchoesFromTheVortex, Authorspress India. She
blogs at http://monikapant.blogspot.in/, can be contacted at mpant65@gmail.com
and her twitter handle is @mpant65.

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